


thicker than blood

by beardsley



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beardsley/pseuds/beardsley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times they were not like brothers at all, in the past and in the now. <i>Face to face or back to back, behind enemy lines or behind the privacy of closed doors, armed to the teeth or stripped bare. It doesn't goddamn matter.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	thicker than blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Renne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renne/gifts).



> Written for [this prompt](http://stevebucky-fest.dreamwidth.org/307.html?thread=203059#cmt203059) on the Steve/Bucky prompt fest, and inspired by the frankly ridiculous mini-shitstorm that went down on Tumblr over the perceived ickiness of shipping characters who are "like siblings". Or tainting the sanctity of male no homo bonding? Something.
> 
> This is 616, which means quite a bit of underage sex.

The tent is freezing and feels like it's about to shake apart under anything stronger than a breeze, and Bucky doesn't care. He doesn't care about his back screaming in protest when Steve pushes him into the ground, just like he doesn't care that his thighs are clamped tight enough around Steve's waist he'd bruise if he was any regular guy.

Bucky is a regular kid and he knows _he_ 's gonna have bruises from Steve's fingers on his hips. He doesn't care about that, either.

'Can't move,' Steve manages between one shallow breath and the next, his face pressed into the crook of Bucky's neck. 'God, Bucky, please — I need —'

'Fine, fucking _fine_.' Bucky forces his legs to spread wider, instead crossing his ankles over Steve's lower back. It's all the invitation Steve needs and then Bucky has to fight back a whimper as Steve's hips jerk forward and oh, Jesus wept, it hurts but it's the kind of hurt Bucky lives for. His fingers scramble over Steve's shoulders and back and Steve throws up one hand to keep himself from just falling on top of Bucky.

Bucky can feel every push in his toes, seeing stars when he shuts his eyes. They never have time for finesse or grace, for anything slower than a race to get to the edge like it's a hundred metre dash.

The best they can do is hard and fast. Bucky rips moan after moan from Steve's throat when his muscles clench around his dick and Steve gives as good as he gets. He used to care about going too rough and he probably still does, but it doesn't stop him from knocking the air out of Bucky's lungs with every perfect thrust of his perfect fucking hips.

Bucky comes like a damn freight train as soon as Steve reaches between them to get his hand on Bucky's dick, and he has to bite down on Steve's shoulder to muffle the desperate wail trying to make it out of his mouth. It doesn't take long before Steve follows, going still except for the way the muscles in his arms bunch up, shaking.

'Oh, brother,' Bucky says when they get themselves under control. Steve is plastered against his side and they're both sticky with sweat, and Bucky doesn't care. There's come drying on his stomach and he knows he'll be walking funny for a little while and he does not fucking care.

Steve lets out a soft snort, his breath warm against Bucky's shoulder. 'That wasn't very brotherly.'

'Long as you don't stop, I got no problem with that.'

It's the faintest touch of Steve's fingertips skimming over Bucky's thigh as he gets up, but it might as well be Steve screaming at the top of his lungs. Both would mean the same thing.

'C'mon,' Steve says, reaching for his ruined but salvageable uniform. 'Namor's gonna be cranky if we're late to the meet.'

~

'You gotta — oh, Jesus motherfucking Christ — _please_ —'

He's shaking, thighs and arms and shoulders, choking on every bitten-back moan. There are dark spots dancing at the edges of his vision and it's been like this from the moment Steve caught both his hands and tied them loosely with his belt. Bucky could get out no problem and they both know it, but the fun is in him staying bound despite that. Fun, yeah. He's practically sobbing with how much he needs Steve to _do_ something.

He thought between Steve's supersoldier metabolism and his own bright youthful stamina they might just keep going until they drop, but he never factored in Steve deliberately being a mean little shit. And Steve, kneeling between Bucky's thighs with sweat glistening on his bare skin and his hair damp at the temples and falling into his eyes, grins like the cat that ate the mouse and the cream and the canary and the whole damn fishbowl.

His fingers are wrapped around Bucky's dick, slick with sweat and precome, and he gives a gentle squeeze — so fucking gentle, just to drive Bucky out of his mind — and breathes out a laugh when Bucky lets out a straight-up whine.

Bucky deserves it, is the thing. He deserves it because he blew Steve all through a radio dispatch from London and kept going even after Steve gave him the sign for _stop_ (left thumb brushing twice over the ring finger; they've been using that one from the first time they screwed somewhere nearly public and had to cover each other's mouths to keep quiet).

Steve presses his smile against the inside of Bucky's thigh. 'Am I gonna have to gag you, too?'

The thought makes Bucky moan helplessly. God, he could go with that. He's always loud when he can be and the idea of being forced into silence is — he moans again, back arching.

'Not yet,' Steve says. His voice is heavy and rough and Bucky dearly hopes he's hard enough it's _painful_ , damn it. 'Don't come, not yet.'

'That — that an order?'

'I can make it one.'

Bucky breathes through his nose and plants his feet flat on the ground and thinks about rations and munitions manifests instead of Steve's wide pupils and flushed cheeks and — his own hands tied over his head when all he wants is to fist them in Steve's hair —

'Please,' he gets out through gritted teeth. 'Please, fuck _fuck_ , anything, god, please just — fucking — Steve —'

He knows the begging does something to Steve. He has no idea what or why, if it's just when Bucky does it or not, but Steve groans and his hands are searing as he slides them up Bucky's thighs and by the time he wraps his lips around the head of Bucky's dick Bucky is ready to start screaming. His wrists are straining against the belt and it's criminal that Steve's pretty mouth should feel this good.

But they have time, for the first time in what seems like forever, and if this is what Bucky deserves then he's all right with that.

~

Bucky always wondered what it would be like to have an older brother instead of a younger sister and he thinks he has a good idea now. They're closer than brothers could be and Steve is like the sibling Bucky never had, give or take the killing, the war and everything going to hell all around them all the goddamn time.

That and the fucking, too.

All Bucky needs is a glimpse of Steve changing in his tent and he's good to go. It'd probably be creepy to park himself outside Steve's tent to jack off, so he memorises as many details as he can — Steve pulling the top of his dirt- and blood-stained uniform over his head, sweat beading at the small of his back, the clear line of his biceps as he lifts his arms, the colour in his cheeks and the hair trailing down from his navel, the stark edge of his hip and the perfect curve of his ass.

It's enough to get Bucky hot under his collar when they're freezing their balls off behind enemy lines and it's enough to keep him warm at nights on leave.

It's enough, but it's better when he's not alone.

There are nights he's bunked up with Toro and they both can't sleep so they jerk off instead, and Toro always makes the best noises when it's dark and Bucky spills all the filthy secrets that would get him booted from the army ('He loves it, y'know, he abso-fucking-lutely loves it and when you ride him long enough — and we can go hours, literal goddamn hours — and he does this thing with his hips and I swear to god you can feel every single fucking inch of him in you and it is fucking _glorious_ —'). He knows Toro is never sure how much of it is truth and how much is wishful thinking and Bucky lying through his teeth to get them both off.

He's brothers with Toro too, and with the rest of the Invaders. It's probably screwed up somehow, but Bucky wouldn't know normal if it hit him in the face with a two-by-four. But there's brothers, and then there's him and Steve.

Him and Steve and all the sweat, the blood and bruises and dirt under their fingernails. The missions they run alone, bounced between one unit and the next. When they're alone, it's easy.

It always is. Behind enemy lines or on leave, in occupied Eastern Europe or in London. They fuck to the roar of Luftwaffe bombers and air raid sirens and it's _easy_.

~

It stops being easy, but enough ice and murder will do that to a guy.

The first time Steve holds his wrists above his head and his voice gets an edge of authority, Bucky panics. He reacts without thinking, throwing Steve off and going straight for the jugular — and in his head he's a million miles and years away, thrashing as three men hold his head under freezing water and one of his handlers' voice detailing the things that will be done to him as punishment for questioning orders.

He comes to with Steve on top of him again, twisting his arm behind his back. They're both naked and Bucky has never felt this helpless. He's shaking, he realises, and it's not from arousal. He presses his face into the sweat-damp sheets. 'I'm sorry,' he mutters, voice hoarse. God, he hopes he didn't scream too. 'I'm — fuck, Steve, I'm so sorry.'

Steve lets him go. His touch is so fucking gentle Bucky thinks it might break him like so much glass.

'Don't be,' Steve says. 'It's all right. I shouldn't have pushed you. I'm —'

'Don't apologise.'

Steve closes his mouth. The silence isn't awkward, but neither is it comfortable. Just the memory, the thought of being held down like that, is enough that Bucky starts to feel like he's gonna choke on nausea. He leans in to press a dry kiss to the corner of Steve's mouth and gets off the bed. Christ. They can screw in a real bed now, and Bucky is too broken to appreciate it.

He jerks his chin in the direction of the bathroom. 'I need —'

'I know,' says Steve. His expression is all sympathy and understanding. Of course it is; sympathy and understanding, that's who Steve Rogers is. He'd never hurt Bucky, never _want_ to, but knowing that intellectually doesn't help the knot in the pit of Bucky's stomach.

In the bathroom he splashes his face with cold water. He runs his wet hands through his hair.

The bed is empty when he walks out, but he finds Steve smoking on the fire escape. He's put on a pair of threadbare sweatpants and the sweat has already cooled on his skin. Bucky sits next to him. Steve's arm goes around his waist; it could be automatic, but Bucky knows better.

Steve doesn't offer him a fresh cigarette, just gives Bucky his own. Bucky takes it from his fingers and inhales, and breathes out smoke and knows they'll be okay — but fuck, he wishes he could be better for Steve _now_. Which, hey, story of his life.

'You have to tell me,' Steve says. 'What you're comfortable with. What you're not comfortable with. We're taking it at your pace, but you gotta talk to me, Buck.'

Bucky leans against his side. He's never felt safer than like this with Steve big and warm next to him, and he's okay with that same weight pressing down on him — but it takes so little for fear to start kicking in, for that thrum of anxiety that takes away any interest he might have in sex. The shit that was done to him was all so clinically _not_ sexual that he can't reconcile the two now.

'I know, yeah,' he mutters. He takes another drag and passes the cigarette back to Steve. There's no way for him to put the hot tangled mess in his head into words, so he settles for the thing he knows Steve will get: 'Brothers?'

And Steve does, he gets it. He presses his lips to Bucky's temple and Bucky can feel him smile. 'You're damn right.'

~

Steve, though. Steve takes well to giving up control.

He turns to putty under Bucky's hands and the hottest thing isn't the way he looks spread open with his hands tied to the headboard, breathing quick and shallow and flushed a deep scarlet under the blindfold and all the way down his torso. It's not the small noises he makes when Bucky's mouth on him must be excruciating and too slow, too leisurely to let him come. It's not the way he bites his lips to keep himself from talking — even though he wants to — because Bucky told him to stay quiet. It's not even the shuddering gasps Steve lets out when Bucky presses the tips of his fingers behind his balls just to feel him dig his heels into the small of Bucky's back.

It's that he could get free any second but doesn't, because he trusts Bucky — with Bucky's fucked up head, fucked up instincts, fucked up everything. He trusts Bucky without reservation or worry for his own safety even though they both know Bucky could, if he put his mind to it, hurt him. He trusts Bucky; he has _faith_. Bucky could get drunk on nothing but this: Steve giving it up and letting Bucky take charge.

He lets Bucky do anything he wants and fucking loves it. No, more than that. He needs it. He needs to let go the same way Bucky needs to stay in control.

As soon as they're both finished and Bucky unties his hands, Steve pushes up the blindfold and wraps his arms around Bucky's neck. It's not him who holds on for dear life, Bucky realises in the same moment he realises that he's shaking.

'It's all right,' Steve murmurs into his hair. 'You're all right.'

It's true; it has to be. By saying the words Steve makes it reality, and since he doesn't lie — it has to be true. The logic is probably ass-backwards, Bucky knows. He doesn't care. Steve was, is and always will be the best thing that ever happened to him.

Bucky used to wonder what it would be like to have a brother and now he knows, but he already knew in the 40s. He fought alongside brothers in arms and watched them die; when he wasn't himself, just a machine used against everything he has ever loved, he killed people who he would have called brothers without even knowing them. War and familial ties have always been tangled in his head, blood spilt and blood that might as well be shared.

Steve has always been so much more than that. It doesn't matter what they want to call this thing between them that's lasted for the better part of a century — even if for Bucky it feels like moments, and will never feel like enough.

Face to face or back to back, behind enemy lines or behind the privacy of closed doors, armed to the teeth or stripped bare. It doesn't goddamn matter.


End file.
